


bring me warm rain and you (i want you most of all)

by NaroMoreau



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dubious Consent, Happy Ending, Hopeful Ending, I mean there's a plot if you squint, Jealous Aziraphale (Good Omens), Kinktober 2020, M/M, Marathon Sex, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Pollen, Sex pollen typical lack of explicit consent, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27133267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NaroMoreau/pseuds/NaroMoreau
Summary: It's been twenty years since Aziraphale walked away from Crowley and the Thermos flask. When a temptation goes terribly wrong, Aziraphale will be faced with his own feelings towards Crowley in the attempt to help him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 64
Kudos: 420
Collections: Ineffable Kinktober 2020, The Sticky Stigma, Top Aziraphale Recs





	bring me warm rain and you (i want you most of all)

**Author's Note:**

> I have to thank the wonderful [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish) for organizing this Kinktober, which pushed me to write this. 
> 
> Also to the absolutely amazings [caedmon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caedmon/pseuds/Caedmon), [hanap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanap/pseuds/hanap), [afhyer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afhyer/pseuds/afhyer), [noxnoctua](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoxNoctua/pseuds/NoxNoctua) and [Phantom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phantomstardemon) for all their cheering, friendship and help. And as always to my amazing beta [Hatknitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HatKnitter) which is way too kind with me.
> 
> Title (altered) by Emery Allen

Time is a finicky, peculiar thing, Aziraphale thinks. Twenty years have already slipped past him since the moment the door of the Bentley shut behind him. Twenty years since he walked away. 

Barely a trickle of sand in an hourglass, a thin ring in the wide trunk of an immortal life. 

Yet every second seems to make him fall further out of place as he forges his way through the months and weeks that wear him thin. 

The first days were definitely the hardest. That trepidation burning inside, those excruciatingly painful shards of hope at any jingle of the bell at the top of his door, waiting, _waiting_ for Crowley to come back. For Crowley to say ‘ _bollocks to that_ ’ all over again and bridge the chasm that Aziraphale carved between them. For him to step inside the bookshop, this place that already feels bereft and hollow and just not _Aziraphale's_ any more.

He has waited and watched, casting about the narrow street outside as a stifling, busy summer gave way to densely packed snow and whistling wind. He has heaved long sighs, drunk more wine, dined under dim lights in all the quaint little bistrós he knows so well. He has allowed himself a bloodletting. 

There were a handful of aborted attempts when Aziraphale shoved his arms into his cream coat and dithered at the bookshop door, thinking hard, _feeling_ even harder, and then released a defeated breath. 

The coat always found its way back to the rack. 

That doesn't mean Aziraphale didn’t try to reach Crowley. He reached wide, seeking, and settled when he found those swirls and wisps of demonic essence pulsing up in Mayfair, fanning out all over Regency Street, sometimes there at St. James’s Park. So very distinctively Crowley’s.

Aziraphale tells himself it's necessary, the separation and the link, so he never actually severs the tether.

* * *

A storm is raging outside the bookshop. 

Aziraphale has a complicated relationship with rain. He has always considered it a prologue of sorts, a first step, a pivotal moment of good things that have led to the path to where he is now. But right this moment, it seems anything but.

His Earl Grey is warm in his cup, the saucer perfectly balanced between forefinger and thumb, when the precarious tether snaps. Aziraphale almost tumbles out of his chair, cup and saucer break in pieces against the hardwood floor. The ever-present nexus pulses sharp, writhing like living wire across the places where Aziraphale holds it. There, where Crowley's essence feels warped, strained, stretched too taut, and flaring in a way Aziraphale has never sensed before.

It’s been twenty years and not one minute more. 

It takes Aziraphale the long span of another minute to gather the points of reality and bend them to his will, until the fabric of the world complies and he finds himself standing outside the Mayfair flat.

Aziraphale pauses. Considers. His hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating, much like he did twenty years ago inside the Bentley, and he oscillates in and out of the courage needed to open the door.

The burn of Crowley's twisted, misshaped essence vibrates harder, louder, and Aziraphale finally tosses caution aside, turns the knob, pushes, with the artful eagerness of a ram against a studded door. 

"Crowley?" he calls to the empty, sterile walls, his heart pounding against his ribs.

A soft breath. " _A-Aziraphale_?"

"Where are you?"

There's a muffled groan from inside the bedroom. " _Oh, no, no, no, fuck no_ . _You can’t be here!_ "

Aziraphale hurries along the corridor and jerks to a halt when he sees Crowley's long, lean, black-clad, _beloved_ form sitting on the edge of his – _his bed_ , Aziraphale thinks, and has the wherewithal to not let his blood flow in a rush to his cheeks. 

Something lumps in his throat, and Aziraphale breathes, a shivery, small sound, his chest full, _finally_ , as if he had emerged from underwater, a full breath of pure air.

 _Lord, oh Heavens, it's been too long._

"You shouldn't be here," Crowley says in a gasp that unerringly lands where it hurts worst. There's a crimson flush spreading from his face down his neck. “You can’t be here, Aziraphale. Go. Just go." 

His eyes are open in their beautiful, inhuman glory, flashing with something unnervingly deep, slits blown wider than Aziraphale has seen before. His hair is longer, and he looks as lovely as he ever has. Aziraphale's stomach flops with a stark _thunk_ that resounds in his ears. 

"I– I thought–" Aziraphale tries to wrest the words from where he feels them churning in his gut like bile, sour in his throat, like wine turned to vinegar, twenty years too long in the aging barrel. Still, he presses. "I felt–"

Crowley squirms, biting his bottom lip in what is clearly an attempt to muffle a moan, his hips kicking forward on the silk sheets, head thrown back. 

"Oh, goodness, Crowley, what's wrong with you?" 

"Ngk. _Nnnothing_ , angel," Crowley says, voice flat, but Aziraphale sees him grabbing fistfuls of the black sheets, knuckles blanched. "J-Just leave."

Crowley's heaving chest is very difficult to miss under the gossamer fabric of his painted-on shirt. Aziraphale gives a tentative step forward. "Crowley–"

"Stay back!" he yelps, and sounds terrified, voice cracking like reed.

The sinuous line of Crowley's spine does something complicated, and Aziraphale watches with fascinated horror as he claws at the buttons of his shirt. His fingers slip, a messy twirl of wrists, forefingers twisting over thumbs in a futile attempt to set himself free. His brow is furrowed, sweat-damp, and Aziraphale's heart pounds like the swing of a relentless hammer in his chest.

"Crowley, please," Aziraphale begs, his knee now brushing the edge of the mattress. _Oh, Lord how I’ve missed him_. 

Crowley glances up at him, his pink lips open and panting. 

"Let me– let me help you," Aziraphale says, "you're in pain!"

"For fuck's sake, Angel, go! You really can't be here!"

"At least tell me what's wrong with you!" his voice louder than he intended.

Crowley garbles a frustrated noise at the back of his throat. And perhaps Aziraphale shouldn't have yelled, but terror is crawling up his spine as he watches Crowley's eyes shift into black and his body quaver. 

" _Aziraphale…,_ " Crowley chokes out, just short of a whine, in syllables that are pure air.

He's completely flushed down to his collarbones, down to where the V of his shirt is pulled off-center, drawing Aziraphale’s eyes to the smooth line of his neck. 

Aziraphale takes one determined step forward and sits beside the demon, places a hand on his cheek where the skin is fever-hot. "Good Heavens, Crowley, you're burning!" 

Crowley seems to recoil from his touch and seek it at the same time, his neck angling into Aziraphale's palm. Aziraphale's own face grows hot, his heart almost collapsing under the need to hold him closer. 

"I am not going anywhere," Aziraphale says, an edge of steel in his words. "So stop telling me that. Tell me once and for all what's wrong so I can… I can _help_ you, you infuriating creature."

Crowley looks at him and, for the spark of a second there's a sheen of despair, the pain of a need not met. But he blinks, one long flutter of eyelids, and opens his mouth. "I'm fucked," he says, his throat clicking wet. 

Aziraphale's hand falls flat on the mattress. "What?"

"A temptation gone wrong." 

"How wrong?" 

Crowley tilts his head back, whining, and Aziraphale brushes back the damp rust hair plastered on his forehead. He leans closer, against his better judgement, "Crowley, how wrong?"

"Pretty. Astoundingly. Fuckin'. Badly. Wrong," he says, the words only punches of air. Crowley cranes his neck and gazes at him with glittering eyes that are almost entirely black. "Fuck. Aziraphale, you need to leave while I can still– or just– help me get to a pub or something."

Aziraphale feels his brows leaping to his hairline. "A… a pub?"

"Yesss."

"Why?"

"What do you mean, ‘why?’" Crowley presses his hips down against the mattress, and the shape of the act is too clear to pretend it is anything but sexual. Aziraphale licks his lips and his cock twitches in his trousers, thighs tensing. "So I can… so I can find a lot of humans to fuck me, okay? 'S no big deal."

Aziraphale's heart races, twists, a slice of hot pain like a barb. "Pardon?" 

For a moment, a stupid, idiotic moment, Aziraphale wonders if this is something Crowley indulges in, and he can't _not_ picture it. A _pack_ of men, sharing Crowley, passing him around as if he were a doll, a thing, fucking his arse open, fucking his mouth slack, using him over and over, one after the other, as he goes limp in _their_ undeserving arms, until he's nothing but an absolute mess of _human_ come and sweat. 

Aziraphale’s blood rushes in his ears, his fingers curl tightly in his palms, manicured nails dig painfully into the skin. "Is that what you want?," he asks, his voice vaguely tinted with something dark. 

"What I _want_ ?" Crowley gazes up at him fiercely, lingering, and Aziraphale's chest goes tight as the clench of his jaw, as the press of his lips. " **No** , it's not what I bloody _want_ !" Crowley blurts out, "It's what I _need–_ and if I don't– if I don't– then…”

Aziraphale chokes on a breath, "Then _what_ , Crowley?"

"Then– then it's rainchecks forever, for lunches and what have you, from now on."

Aziraphale thinks of twenty years, going on a hundred – eternity, those words like a scalpel cutting out fears that are never truly gone. His stomach sinks. 

Crowley seems to be all loose limbs and sweet sighs now, quickly unraveling under whatever thing has him under its thrall. _No one_ , Aziraphale says to himself, _no one else should have the privilege of seeing him like this._

 _I love you_ , he thinks – frantic, stuttered words that only make sense in his mind – _and I want you to be mine._

"Aziraphale, please," Crowley begs then, voice full of trepidation. " _Please_ go. I'll find a way–" He writhes in the bed, his spine arching as if he’s trying to remain sitting but losing balance, rapidly, and _Lord,_ his shirt is already half undone, his trousers unbuttoned.

"No," Aziraphale whips out. 

"N-no?"

"If you need this, you'll take it from me," he says, his voice full of gravel.

"I can't –" 

"You _can_ ," Aziraphale says, ignoring the thrum of his own selfish reasons, tucking away any inconvenient feeling. He presses his leg against Crowley's, skin burning through layers of cloth. He would give anything to gather Crowley in his arms, to soothe the pain creasing his face. He brushes a hand over his cheek, smoothes the flyaway strands of fire. "I won't let you die out of sheer stubbornness, Crowley," Aziraphale says. And then he adds, "Please, my dear, let me help you."

"You can't–" Crowley shakes his head, his eyes glazed with unshed tears, and Aziraphale thumbs at the ones welling up in the corner of his eye, grazing the fluttering lashes. " _'Ziraphale_ ," Crowley grinds out, all of him tearing apart at the seams, "don't have to do this." Crowley's sides heave as he inhales, the muscles of his throat, of his chest, rippling in riled shifting. 

"I don't have to, I want to," Aziraphale says, finally, petting Crowley's hair and finding the courage to smile. And it’s true. 

" _Fuck_."

* * *

Crowley knots his hands on Aziraphale's lapels, drags him down. And then he's kissing him, _at last,_ frantic, with an urgency that rips down through the doubts gnawing at Aziraphale's heart. It's wet and open, a mess of teeth, tongues, and sucked lips. It's everything and even more. But it burns, scorches Aziraphale whole, guilt red as a firebrand that tells him he ought to stop. There's a line being blurred, a snarled-up feeling finally pushing forward like slick oil over water, tainting. Because _this_ isn't how it should be, Aziraphale thinks, while his twisted self tries to reconcile his hopes with the hard, hot press of Crowley's mouth against his own. But then he feels Crowley's shimmying his hips and effectively stops thinking, parting their bodies for a bit to look down, and _Good Lord._

Crowley's trousers are pushed low, below the line of his slim hip bones, so low Aziraphale realizes he isn't wearing any pants. 

"Take these off me," Crowley sort of whines, lips red-stung, pawing at his waistband. 

Aziraphale follows his command in a daze, rolls off the bed to kneel on the floor in front of him, watching Crowley kick to help while he finishes removing his shirt, clearly eager to be bare. 

And _oh, Merciful Heaven_. He's kneeling at a banquet, a feast.

Pale, smooth skin, peaked nipples he wants to suck into his mouth, narrow hips he has always wanted to touch, to mark with bruises, to kiss and trace with broad strokes of his tongue. Crowley looks so delicate Aziraphale thinks he might shatter him, and yet there's power in his sinews, in the planes of his muscles. Aziraphale licks the seam of his mouth, and his hands find the slight dip of Crowley's waist – small, so deliciously small he can almost brush his thumbs together. 

It isn’t as if he hasn’t spent an inordinate amount of time thinking about this, hoping through the entirety of the inhabited world, the winding line of human history a canvas for feverish dreams that he never thought to see through.

And it's intoxicating.

Crowley is shivering, the jut of his cock curving against his stomach, already leaking a small glistening pool under his navel, his chest heaving. Aziraphale's heart thuds, dangerously stretched to its limit, hands tracing flushed skin while Crowley moans and presses his erection against the hot line of Aziraphale's trousers where his cock is already hard, wetting the fabric. 

Aziraphale swallows a noise, half garbles a groan, and kisses Crowley again, hands framing his face, his head spinning. He moves down the angle of Crowley's jaw, catching that blessed whiff of scent that always makes him think of apples hanging on a bough, and licks tracks along the smooth column of his neck, the taste richer than full-bodied wine.

He reaches a hand to Crowley's nipple, skating a thumb over it, making him arch off the bed. "Is– is this alright?" Aziraphale asks, because he's taking so much already. _Always taking, taking, taking, greedy creature that I am_. 

But then Crowley rasps, "Yes, yes, touch me, Angel. _There_ ," and it's impossible to stop.

Crowley pushes at the cream coat, maneuvering in his lust-addled state to make it fall from the line of Aziraphale's shoulders.

"Shall I?" Aziraphale asks, his hands reaching for his buttons.

"Yes, yes, _please_ ," and the impatience makes fire roil down Aziraphale's spine. "Let me see you. I _need_ to see you."

Too many buttons, too many layers. Aziraphale spares a miracle, his clothes now haphazardly strewn over the floor, the furniture, some blasted place… _away_.

"Fucking Hell," Crowley stares, his eyes twinkling, wandering. "Angel, you are gorgeous."

Aziraphale feels himself flushing down to his chest, sits back on the bed, "I think you have that already covered, my dear."

Crowley doesn't answer, leans over to nip at Aziraphale's collarbone, hands smoothing over the swell of his stomach, then closing around the base of his prick. 

"I want to suck your cock. Let me suck your cock," Crowley moans in Aziraphale's pulse spot, breath hot on his skin. And how is he supposed to _live_ through this? “I’ll suck you so well, Angel, _please_ –”

"Oh, _Crowley_." Aziraphale flounders, mind reeling, his cock pulsing, heavy between his legs as Crowley slides off the bed to crouch between his knees, eyes awash with lust. 

"Is this what you want?" Aziraphale asks, thumbing his dripping slit, still in a haze. 

"Yes, yes, _fuck_. Want it in my mouth," Crowley says, leaning forward, quickly sucking him down his throat. 

"Oh, God, _Crowley…_ " Aziraphale gasps, scrambles to control the need, the ache, the tide inside that's swallowing him down. He strokes a thumb across the line of Crowley's slack jaw, just there where the bone fuses. His hands fist in Crowley's long locks, pulling it all up out of the way, watching the bulge of his tip slide down Crowley's throat.

His mouth sizzles with the burn of words unsaid. _I love you_ . _Forgive me._

Then Crowley looks up at him, eyes glazed, liquid, as if begging for something Aziraphale doesn't understand. And Aziraphale makes him stop, a little tug of his fist in soft hair until Crowley has only the blunt head between his hot lips.

"Oh, you're a vision, dear," he says, and Crowley preens. The sweet thing. He has always been soft for praises, and apparently not even this dastardly thing can outmatch the need for that. And that is a thing Aziraphale can give him. 

"Look at you. You gorgeous, sweet thing, you take me so well," Aziraphale fucks his mouth in long, controlled thrusts. "Do you… like that? Having your… sweet mouth… stretched like that? Would you… like me… to come… down your throat…, my dear?" 

Crowley whines assent around him, frantically pushes his head forward, as if he’s trying to choke on every inch of Aziraphale's cock. 

It's too much. Too perfect. The way Crowley closes his eyes in ecstasy. The warm, plush pressure of his mouth. The whole wet mess gathering on the sheets – Crowley's drool and his own slick. 

It drives Aziraphale over the edge, the pressure in his spine unraveling. Crowley swallows greedily, swirls a tongue that doesn’t feel quite human, pulls out all he can give, then lets him go with a sinful pop. He licks his lips and Aziraphale barely has time to gather his senses before he's presented with the sight of Crowley sprawled on the bed, legs splayed open, cock greedily erect. For him.

 _Good Heavens_. He won’t recover from this anytime soon. 

A rosy flush has worked itself up to Crowley's cheeks. "Fuck me, angel. _Please_ ," he says, lips raw and red, mouth glistening wet. “I want you to fuck me, _now_.”

Aziraphale groans, and he wants to say something but the words just catch in his chest. Only a whine escapes. He miracles slick, but Crowley stops him before he pushes a finger in.

" _Nngh_. No need," he says. "Miracled myself ready."

 _Oh Lord, have Mercy_. "Are you sure, my dear?"

"Yes, yes!" he slithers his hips further down. "Push your cock inside me, Angel, _please_. I can take it all, right now, I swear."

Aziraphale caresses his cheek, watches Crowley's cock dribble precome on his stomach, his breathing coming in ragged gasps, "I know you can, dear. You're so good, Crowley. You wonderful thing."

And Aziraphale directs one blasphemous thought to the Almighty, thanking her that he doesn't have to deal with pesky human refractory periods. 

He slicks his cock, lines up the fat head to the tight furl of Crowley's open rim, watches him clench around air. Desperate.

" _'Ziraphale…_ "

He finally pushes inside, lets the tip catch a little at the entrance before thrusting all the way in. It's utterly _divine_. It's so very, very tight, velvet-slick, and Aziraphale thinks the whole world could end now because millennia are condensed in this one moment alone.

"Oh, oh. _Angel_." 

It's a revelation. A knowledge blazing through ages that tells him he has so badly needed this. Not the sex, blast the sex, but the privilege of having Crowley in his arms. And it burns. Aziraphale falls forward onto his elbows, encased by Crowley's legs. He pulls at Crowley's hair baring his throat, sucks bruises on it, kisses all the skin he can find, fucks him hard, slow, the way he knows Crowley wants him to. 

"Oh, my dear. Oh, you gorgeous thing," he breathes into the crook of Crowley's neck. He can say this much, stating a truth and nothing else. Crowley scrabbles frantically at his arms, at the muscles of his biceps, the hard line of his shoulders. 

"Angel, yes, yes. _Please_ ,” Crowley pants wetly against his ear. "Fuck me _harder–_ " He curls his hips off the bed, opens his legs wider. He looks so lovely. Aziraphale is sure no angel can match his beauty. He runs a thumb over his chin, over the sweat-damp skin, until Crowley catches it between his lips and sucks.

He oughtn’t let his eyes linger over the sight before him, he oughtn’t let his heart dwell there. 

"Ah– _Angel_ , tell me…” Crowley whines, throat wrecked, pulling him in by the waist with his heels, " _tell me_ how it feels."

 _Unfettered bliss_.

"Oh, _god_ , Crowley, so– so tight. _So_ good," and he sounds utterly shattered. Aziraphale nuzzles Crowley's neck, nosing all the way up to his mouth and kisses him, mouth generously open, breath only a shiver. 

It's good enough to fight back the venom. 

He thrusts harder, fucks Crowley in earnest, because this is not sweet lovemaking (as much as he might want otherwise) and the whole swaths of skin against skin are absolute torture. He kneels up again, hoists Crowley's thighs up, places one leg on his shoulder, and watches enthralled as the slick shaft of his cock disappears into Crowley's arse. Crowley's tight, little hole clenches around Aziraphale's whole girth and just takes it.

His pulse skitters and he grinds his teeth, snapping his hips harder, canting them to try and hit _there_. 

It doesn't take long.

Crowley cries out, and Aziraphale clasps his hand around Crowley's neglected cock, pumping him in a tight fist until he's coming with a shout, body jerking off the sheets, making a mess of his stomach and Aziraphale's hand, the whole slender line of him going rigid and then gloriously lax. 

"Angel, _ah_ , angel…" 

It yanks at Aziraphale's heartstrings, hearing Crowley calling him with that need still grating beneath his words. He looks blissed out – red, soft waves on black sheets – while Aziraphale digs his fingers in the swell of his thighs. And then he shifts, a jerk of his hips.

"Crowley, _oh dear_ …” Aziraphale groans, "I'm going to come."

"Yes, yes, _Angel_ ," Crowley writhes, and wraps his legs tighter around Aziraphale's waist, "fill me up, will you? Come inside me, _please_."

Aziraphale shudders, a whine struggling in his throat, his vision petering out in white. He hikes Crowley's legs up wide, _wider_ and comes hard inside him, fucking him through the crests of his orgasm until he pulls abruptly out, tugging at the base of his prick, spilling one last spurt on Crowley's stomach, into the mess already there. 

It's a moment suspended in time, a speck of dust forever lingering in sunbeam, before dread creeps up Aziraphale entirely. 

It's done now, a service to pay for millennia of kindness, and he has no place here anymore. He has taken what he was asked to, but he's still a thief. Undeserving _. It shouldn't have been like this. Not like this, never like this_. 

And Crowley has granted him such a gift. God, this should be already more than enough, he shouldn't be expecting anything else... 

"Angel, please." Crowley pushes himself up on his hands and knees, gazing at him with eyes that are still unusually dark. 

_Lord._

_Thou shalt not covet._

_Alas, those rules are made for humans after all, aren't they?_

* * *

He fucks Crowley on all fours, biting back words, biting back that sour, poisonous feeling as the demon swivels his hips, shoving himself back against Aziraphale’s cock as if he needs more, even when every inch was already inside him. Aziraphale holds him in place, a hand on his hip, the other fondling his heavy balls, while he tries to ignore the sharp sensation, the dull ache behind his eyes as Crowley calls his name, his tight, slick, warm hole clamping around him so hard it’s difficult to hold back. 

He fucks him deep until Crowley's arms give up on him, until his hisses and cries are muffled by his mouth biting the pillowcase, probably smearing the sheets, watching the bloom of the row of thumb bruises he has left in the curve of his waist. And Aziraphale takes it all in, the smooth flow of Crowley’s back, the dip of his spine, the curve of his arse where Aziraphale’s thighs slap hard enough to redden the skin, until it’s too much, until Crowley’s coming again, and Aziraphale is coming as well, fucking his load deeper into Crowley’s body until he’s sopping with it.

* * *

"You look lovely, my dear," Aziraphale says. And he means it. When has he not?

He's lying on his back now, Crowley's supple body writhing atop him, sitting on his cock, which is impossibly deep inside. 

"Oh, _god_ ! Azira- _Aziraphale_ ," he sobs. "Feel so– so _full_."

"Shh. You're doing– wonderfully, dear." 

Aziraphale pushes his hips up, his own come running out, leaking down Crowley’s thighs as he keeps fucking himself on Aziraphale's cock. It's positively sinful, this feeling. This surge of pride, burning greed, and vanity, watching his own spend easing his way in. Knowing he has had him so many times today, and Crowley has refused again to miracle away the mess inside him.

Crowley's legs are shaking, rising up, sinking down, again. Aziraphale daring only to brush fingers on his chest before anchoring his hands on Crowley's hips as he thrusts up into him.

"Yes, fuck, yes," Crowley says, flesh rippling and muscles jolting under Aziraphale's upthrusts. " _Angel_ , yes."

_I'm yours, I'm yours._

It doesn't take much more than those sobs in Crowley's throat. Aziraphale gazes up, reaches a hand and stupidly laces his fingers with Crowley's, needing him more than Crowley needs him. One final look at that face, mouth sweetly open, unnaturally dark eyes hazy, and he comes, at the same time as Crowley spills on his chest. 

* * *

The slanting midwinter light sluices through the window, dawn edging finally into morning. Another day, another time. Somewhere along the road Aziraphale has eased Crowley onto his side, pillowing him against the soft, clean sheets when his knees and his spine refused to hold him up any longer, and he’s slipped behind him, caressing his side, grazing his thumb-bruised hip bones, trying to miracle away any discomfort Crowley might feel, until those wretched words arise again. “Aziraphale, please.” 

Crowley pushes his hips back, grinding against him. And Aziraphale can’t fathom a world where he could say no. 

“Yes, dear.”

The slide home is easy, his cock hard from the contact alone. Crowley takes him so sweetly, come-lubed and fucked open. He gives a low sob, his breath slightly ragged. It’s nothing like the frantic attempts from earlier. More like a star with no fuel left, still bright all the same, glowing through the lightyears. Crowley whines, and Aziraphale can’t help it – he kisses a trail along the nape of his neck, even if each one is a silent weight added to the growing unease inside him. 

“Easy, my dear, you’re almost there,” Aziraphale coos, brushing the locks of hair that are now a riot of fire. He holds Crowley closer, a hand splayed over his stomach, over his heart, and rolls his hips. “So good, Crowley. You’ve been so good.”

“ _Please_ ,” Crowley tilts his head back, rests it on Aziraphale’s shoulder, his voice frayed like the ends of a rope. “Yes, Angel. Just–” 

These are the final throes. Aziraphale can feel it each time Crowley takes a new, satisfying breath. _Take the dregs that are offered to you and be content with them_. Aziraphale presses his chest to Crowley’s back, rocks his hips into him, and feels something snap inside his chest. 

_I love him_ , he thinks, the feeling easing around him, and it's already taken a lifetime, _I love him and I would give him everything._

“Oh, Angel, Angel,” Crowley whimpers, and he spasms in Aziraphale’s arms, shaking apart, dragging Aziraphale with him. One final time, and a whispered, “I _love you_.”

Aziraphale makes a sound as if the words hurt. Those words – the ardent tone sings in his veins, gallops in his blood. 

But Crowley goes stiff and frantically pushes away from him, covering his mouth. Too late. More words squeeze out, “Oh, _shit_.” Crowley doesn’t look at him. He doesn’t even pull away up, just mashes the words into a pillow. 

Aziraphale feels like bursting, his stomach squeezing. “Crowley, I–,” he reaches a hand to bridge the gap, but it only hovers there over the jut of a shoulder blade. 

“Don’t,” Crowley chokes out. “Please don’t. Just– go. _Please_.”

The courage that it would have taken to stay inside the Bentley, the struggle it took to pull a door open. Aziraphale places his hand on Crowley’s back, “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Please, don’t do this," Crowley says, his voice skating up half octave. Shaking. "Just– pretend it didn't happen. That you didn't hear. Just leave. Twenty more years. Or ten. We don't have to talk about this. We never do."

"Crowely, please. Could you at least look at me?” And if he forces a sliver of divine command into his voice, well, Crowley has always been too stubborn for his own good.

Slowly, Crowley turns on his side, a hand blindly searching for the edge of a sheet, wrapping himself in it. It breaks Aziraphale's heart. 

His eyes are back to their yellow hue, gorgeous as always, his lips bitten-red and swollen.

"My dear," Aziraphale says, brushing errant locks from Crowley's forehead. "Oh, darling–" 

"You don't have to do this. You don't have to soothe my feelings, Angel. I know this isn't what you wanted." Crowley casts about the room, as if looking for an escape, "It's already fucked up to know I forced you. I don't want your pity."

Aziraphale can't help it – he smiles, presses forward, a palm on Crowley's cheek, "What can possibly make you think you forced me? Didn't I offer myself?"

"Hardly voluntarily," Crowley mutters. 

"Entirely so." It can't be this easy, can it? To stop overthinking, stop dithering on a threshold and struggle forward. He holds Crowley's gaze to deliver a message, a truth, with both eyes open so the arrow finally hits home. 

"Oh, Crowley, my dear, I'm sorry."

" _Unf-_ _What_? What for?"

"For… for everything. For walking away when I wanted to stay, for staying away when I wanted to reach out," he blows air in a puff, "but mostly for making you think, even for a second, that this precious thing you've given me hasn't also been my heart's desire for millennia," he says, voice low and careful.

"I- _nghkfj."_

Aziraphale's heart beats in his throat, watching the slope of Crowley's shoulder, the dip of his neck, the soft hills and valleys he yearns to touch again. To relearn him, slowly. Softly.

He can see Crowley's breath catch in his chest, the glint of something soft in his eyes. Aziraphale dares (he's daring a lot today), and leans down to wrap the warmth of his body around Crowley's, pushing away the sheet. He presses his nose to Crowley's neck.

"I'm sorry I left," he says. "I shouldn't have. I should know by now that it doesn't matter – the distance, I mean. It actually makes it worse. It doesn't make me love you any less. It only makes it hurt more."

Crowley gives a strangled sort of noise, "Angel, don't toy with me."

"I'm not, my darling. I would never." Aziraphale lifts Crowley's hand to his lips, kisses his knuckles, and watches a soft sigh leave his lips. Watches the slow blink as his words are accepted, acknowledged, treasured. "I know our paths will diverge. We have things to sort out, but if you're amenable…”

Crowley swallows, "What?"

"I'd like to establish something. With you." Crowley nods, wide-eyed, and Aziraphale takes both of his hands. "I’d like to establish that, no matter what happens, you'll always belong to me. And I to you."

Crowley sighs, and it's as if whatever strings had him suspended are severed in a snap, and he collapses into Aziraphale's warmth, laces a tentative arm around the curve of Aziraphale's waist. 

"I want you to stay," he says, just a hint of hope, soft, his throat clenching around the words, "with me."

So Aziraphale kisses him, beginning to mend the spaces and years apart, feeling Crowley's soft warmth keenly within himself. It's slow, lingering, and intimate in a way that's new, their lips fitting together, their unnecessary breaths shared.

It's Crowley who finally pulls away, "Will you?"

Aziraphale smiles. It's rather simple, the answer, so he does something he has never done before. 

He says what he wants.

"My love, I'll stay as long as you'll have me."

**Author's Note:**

> Hmu on [Tumblr](https://naromoreau.tumblr.com/) <3


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